


Reward

by corbaccio



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), M/M, Office Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-17 13:53:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corbaccio/pseuds/corbaccio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean figures they need a break from all their hard work, but Armin is a little more reluctant. From the kink meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reward

**Author's Note:**

> Established relationship: Jean is the commander, Armin is his strategist.

"You asked for me, Commander?"

"I told you not to call me that."

Armin's laughter is soft and warm from the doorway, a surprising comfort. "You were so excited when you got promoted. You made Eren say it — what — a hundred times, maybe?"

"Yeah, well. It sounds weird coming from you." Jean scrubs at his face, the familiar pinch of a headache starting at his temples. He leans back to look at Armin proper. "You're not exactly a subordinate."

"Eren isn't, either," he says, democratic. His tone shifts into one of concern. "Are you alright?"

"It's all this administrative stuff." Jean stands and stretches. "I think my head's gonna explode from all the paperwork."

Armin hums, thoughtful. "Let me have a look at it. I'll need to check it over later anyway," he says, circling the desk in three neat steps. He sifts through some of the sheets.

This close, it's easy for Jean to slide his fingers into Armin's belt loops, so he does. "You don't trust my judgement?"

"Of course I do, but as your strategist — hey, would you cut it out?" He ignores Jean's grousing, veering away from his touch. "We're both meant to be working, you know."

"We're both due a break."

Armin gives him a disdainful look, reaching again for his hands.

"I understand where you're coming from, but really. We're in your office. This can wait till later, can't it," he says, logical even as Jean begins messing with his belt buckle. "And we've got a meeting tomorrow. You need to prepare."

Jean sighs, loud and deliberate. "I'm the commander here," he says, "I'm already prepared. I've always got you ready to back me up, anyway."

Armin goes silent a moment, musing. Then, "But we're still in your office. Anyone could come in."

He doesn't resist his tugging this time, though. Jean draws close enough to breathe him in: the scent of old books, cheap soap, something earthy and stable. "I can lock the door," he says. He can tell Armin's swaying: just a little more encouragement. Jean slides his knee between his thighs. "Come on. We've been way too busy lately."

There's a bit of spluttering, but Armin's expression does soften. "Is that right."

Jean diverts one hand to untuck his shirt, grazing the skin of his abdomen with his fingertips. He feels Armin's muscles twitch. "It's just a little stress relief," he murmurs, "we'll be better for it, you know. Work harder. Think clearer."

This time, Armin does huff. "No we won't," he says, brow knitting. "You'll just want to go to sleep afterwards."

Jean presses a wet kiss to the curve of his throat. Armin gives an imperceptible shiver.

"This is what — what always happens," Armin goes on, voice starting to waver. He leans into Jean's touch, a little. "You need to learn some control. We're not teenagers anymore."

Jean moans his frustration into his collarbone. He's this close to relenting, he knows. "You talk like we're ancient or something," he says gruffly. He presses up harder with his knee, satisfied when Armin's breath catches.

"Just because I act like an adult, because I _am_ one —"

"— yeah, yeah, and I am too," Jean cuts in. Armin is red-faced when he pulls away. "I promise this will be the last time."

Armin's expression is torn. Jean blinks guilelessly at him until he looks away: success. "Fine. As long as no one comes in."

Jean makes a concentrated effort not to look too smug as he heads to the door. The finality of the lock clicking is enough to make the coil of anticipation in his stomach go tight. They _have_ been way too busy lately. When was the last time they had a little time together? Armin seems to agree, because he meets him halfway across the room. Even in this, he displays his usual brisk practicality. He undoes Jean's belt, the quick slide of leather teasing, and then his fly, tugging his pants down just far enough to expose his cock. Already half-hard; Armin raises an eyebrow.

"I've been thinking about this all day," Jean admits.

Armin goes bright red, muttering something under his breath as he lowers him back into the chair. Jean watches as Armin sinks to his knees before him. _Oh_. His breath is hot against his erection.

Jean hisses his satisfaction through his teeth as Armin strokes him to full firmness. “That's it,” he says, breathless, sliding one hand through his hair. Armin looks up at him again, as if waiting the order. "Keep going."

He gives a pleasing murmur and obliges. Armin's slow, at first, careful, taking only the head of his cock into his mouth. It's so warm and it's been so long that Jean has to resist the impulse to force him forward. He cards his other hand through Armin's hair, instead, lacing his fingers together.

“Yeah — ah, _fff_ uck Armin — that feels great,” Jean says, voice hoarse. Armin takes the praise well, hungrily, taking more of him into his mouth. This is probably the best exercise in self-control ever, Jean thinks. Armin's head bobs in perfect rhythm, pausing only to press his tongue against the slit of his cock.

Just as he's complimenting himself on his restraint, Armin hums something that makes Jean gasp and thrust forward. The wet heat of his throat is irresistible; he holds Armin there a moment, feeling him swallow about his cock. It's good, all tightness and slick warmth — but he can feel Armin's breaths coming hard through his nose.

Jean releases his hold and Armin pulls away, cock sliding out of his mouth with a wet pop. He coughs, wiping his chin with the back of his hand.

"Sorry," Jean says, shifting guiltily. He can't stop staring at Armin's mouth, still parted, the flat, smooth edge of his teeth visible.

"It's fine," he says, smiling his reassurance as he reaches for the base of Jean's shaft. Armin looks as if he's going to continue sucking him off, and it takes a huge amount of effort to stop him. Jean doesn't want to come just yet. He tugs Armin up by one of the straps of his harness.

"Wait a sec," he says. He breathes, once, twice, focusing through the fog of arousal. "Come here."

Armin rises from his kneel. "What is it?"

"Take off your boots and sit up on the desk," says Jean. It sounds harsher than he means it to, the authority coming too easy from talking to the recruits earlier, but Armin only nods. He hoists himself up on the desk with some effort. His size is even more apparent like this: narrow, slight, though he's gained a fair few inches these past few years. It makes Jean's insides twist. He grips Armin's waist in both hands, so much broader than the bones underneath. There is some small part of him that wants to own Armin, wholly and unquestionably, that wants people to _know_ that he owns Armin.

"Are you okay?" he asks. Armin has his hands braced either side of him, holding tight to the desk as if he's afraid of falling off. Jean must've been looking at him for too long.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Jean nods. He lets one hand slide up Armin's calf, then his thigh, dipping two fingers under the straps there. "You?"

He rubs soothing circles into the fabric. Armin wears it tighter than most — Jean wonders if it hurts.

“Y-yeah,” he says, the edge of apprehension ebbing from his voice. “I'm good. This is... good.”

Armin lets his head tilt back, exposing the delicate skin of his throat. The flush has crept right down to the dip of his collar. Jean thinks briefly about marking it; it would be something so simple, so easy, a pulse of red across his white skin. Might be too obvious, though. He somehow doubts this would go down well with the higher ups. Or with Armin, for that matter.

Slowly, slowly, as if releasing pressure, Jean unbuckles the straps crossing his body. Each click is punctuated by an intake of breath, Armin's hand pressed up against his mouth. Jean lets himself linger on the one at his chest, knuckles grazing the sensitive skin there.

“Still okay?” he asks. Armin has moved to cover his face with his forearm. He gives a soft _mm_ of confirmation, matches it with a desperate roll of his hips.

Jean leans close enough to mouth at his neck. Armin's skin is fever-hot against his cheek, pulse racing; the warmth in Jean's stomach curls, knowing that no one else has seen Armin like this. This is for him and him only.

The harness slides off easily, now — Armin gives a sigh of relief — and he moves to undoing his shirt. The muscles are light under his skin, just the hint of strength. Jean lets his hands settle on Armin's stomach, palms spread flat to cover the narrow breadth of his abdomen.

“Jean,” he says, with uncharacteristic urgency. He shifts his thighs together, breathing shallow and fast: Armin is hard, straining against his trousers.

“You want this, don't you?” Jean says. He palms Armin's erection roughly. “You really want this.”

Armin grinds down into his hand, biting his lip. “Please.”

That's good enough for Jean. The thrum of arousal under his skin is heavier, now, more insistent, so he shucks off Armin's trousers. He was right: there are the painful red impressions of the belts across his skin, a criss-cross of lines from his heels to his thighs. Jean gives a sympathetic hum, tracing them with his fingers. He diverts his hand long enough to open the nearest drawer, reaching for the lotion he left earlier. Armin stiffens underneath him.

"You were prepared," he says, expression going from surprised to deadpan in an instant.

Jean smiles at him, just this side of smug. "Of course. Like I said, I'm the commander. Got to be prepared."

Armin gives him a strangled sort of look, like he wants to say something cutting, but his shoulders sag instead. His voice is heavy when he speaks. "Of course you are, Commander."

"I told you not to call me that." Jean warms the lotion between his fingers, working some of it into the raw imprinted skin of Armin's thigh. He hisses in anticipation, leaning into it.

"Come on," he urges, "come on, _Jean_ , get on with it."

He loves seeing Armin like this, almost desperate but not-quite. Jean preps him quickly as ordered, working his fingers inside him to the knuckle, coaxing. He's pliant, parting easily under Jean's encouragement. Armin makes little noises, stilted staccato _ah_ s, like he can't quite stop himself even with one hand drawn to his mouth. Jean feels himself coming apart at the seams. Armin's always been good at making him feel that way. They've been together years and it's still the same.

He continues to move his long fingers, even as his free hand presses to the small of Armin's back. Jean can feel the bones shift in response as he guides him closer to the edge of the desk. Armin gives another sharp breath when he retracts his hand, chest heaving. Anticipation blows his pupils wide.

"Are you ready?" he asks, mouth sliding against his jawline. It tastes of sweat.

Armin nods.

It's easy, so easy, to slide his cock forward. Jean has to fight back the unconscious urge to thrust all the way in. Armin is blindingly tight, hot around his cock. It's almost tangible, something he can hold on to as he lets them both adjust. Armin clutches at his broad shoulders, scrabbling for purchase, breathing high and damp against his ear. There are words half-formed in the shape of his mouth, slurring out into moans as Jean presses in deeper. He kisses Armin's throat, open-mouthed and wet, murmuring soothing sounds into the skin there.

"Just a little more," he says, soft, like it's a promise. Armin's breath escapes him in a whimper. Jean grabs his leg and hikes it up against his chest, the angle better for sliding those last few inches into him. The air between them is hot, unbearably hot.

" _Ahh_ — Jean," he says, choked. His hands are twisted in Jean's shirt, clenched so tight it must hurt. "More."

That, hissed out through his teeth, is enough to drive Jean forward. He wants to be all Armin can see, all he can think about. Jean wants to fuck him till he can't use that sharp mind of his for days, till all Armin knows is the familiar ache up his spine, so that he'd be reminded whenever he moves.

Jean keeps his thrusts slow, languid, pulling out almost completely before sinking back in. Armin even begins rocking against him in time, bracing his weight on his elbows to roll his hips down on Jean's cock. His moans sound sore, and Jean kisses him hard to stifle them, drinking in the noises he makes. Armin arches into it, the knobs of his vertebrae slick under his hands.

"Shh, slow," Jean says, low against Armin's cheek, more a sigh than fully formed words, "you're doing so good."

He's close. Armin's cock is swollen, neglected between the two of them. Jean wraps a hand around it, increasing the speed of his thrusts to match, sliding out a little further each time only so the drive forward is sweeter, longer. Armin's breaths cut out into frantic gasps — close, so fucking close — and Jean feels the muscles clamp around his cock before he realises Armin's come in his hand.

Armin goes limp in his grip as Jean rides out his own orgasm, hot pleasure flaring through him. It's almost like a relief as he finishes, the world going soft at the edges. Jean lets the desk bear their weight. He feels Armin shudder beneath him, temple damp against his.

After a few moments, Jean lets himself back into his chair. His stomach twinges at the sight of Armin, spread open across his desk, come slick between his thighs. Not a bad view, he thinks. Jean watches his ribs rise and fall, the rhythm settling. He rubs at Armin's calves tenderly.

"How do you feel?"

Armin pushes himself up a little too abruptly. Jean thinks for a moment he'll slide right on to the floor, reaching out both arms to grab his waist. Armin wobbles before his feet find proper purchase. "'M good," he mumbles, rubbing at his back where the edge of the desk bit into his skin. "I feel exhausted."

"I feel great, just so you know."

Armin gives him a narrow look. "I'll bet," he says. He reaches down to give Jean's earlobe a gentle pinch, shaking his head. "I worry about you, sometimes."

"You're always worrying." There are fingerprint bruises already darkening along his flanks. Jean presses his thumbs into them. "If it's not me, then it's Eren, or Mikasa, or the trainees."

Armin's hand dips to the shorn roughness at the base of his scalp, tilting his head up. "It's because you all give me cause to worry... the trainees are so young, you know?"

Jean hums. "So were we."

"I know, but it's — different," says Armin. "I feel responsible."

"Then let's make sure as few die as possible."

Armin leans back against the desk, rolling his shoulders. "Easier said than done."

He recognises the tone of Armin's voice. It's the same one he uses to break the news, to mothers, fathers, to children, to friends.

Jean lifts his hands to fiddle with the buttons of Armin's shirt. "I think you think too much. We're doing the best we can. We wouldn't be here if we weren't any good at it."

"Commander Erwin said that, too."

"And he meant what he said. You know that better than anyone."

Armin breathes another sigh. "I know, I know." Then, "Does your head still hurt?"

"Not much now. Why, you wanna get back to the paperwork?"

"It's a little late for that," he says, and Jean sags in his chair. He'd meant it as a joke, but one never knows with Armin. "Thank god we don't have patrol duty. I need to get cleaned up, anyway."

"I'll do it," says Jean, searching through his drawers for a towel. He guides Armin close.

"You really were prepared, I see."

Jean shrugs as he dabs the towel against his abdomen, between his thighs. "I thought we could both do with a reward for all our hard work."

He feels his head being lifted again. Armin surprises him with a deep kiss, encouraging him with a nip to his bottom lip. He pulls away just enough to breathe, noses still touching.

"Hmm. Maybe you were right," Armin says, fond. He presses light kisses to Jean's cheek, his forehead, the bridge of his nose.

"Wow, you actually believe in a strategy of mine?"

"I wouldn't call _this_ a strategy."

"Oh? But I have a name for it and everything. The 'fuck Armin Arlert on your desk till he quits being such a hardass' maneuver."

"Not exactly pithy."

"Effective, though."

Armin's laughter is low and affectionate against his brow bone. It makes Jean's stomach jump. "Honestly."

It seems alright, this, so he curls both arms around Armin's back. He's warm, like something Jean could sink into and call home. The light coming in has softened, and for now, it's just — uncomplicated. Easy. His fingers find the scars knotted across his spine; Jean could trace them all by memory. _We'll take things as they come_ , he thinks, watching Armin's chin tip down to his chest.

_One at a time._


End file.
